The Nature of Power: Being, Doing, and Feeling (Part II)

Power is embedded within the structures of thought, emotion, behavior, and social organization. It defines the conditions under which actions are possible, shaping not just external circumstances but the internal logic through which individuals interpret the world, others, and themselves.

Power is also a foundational element of social life. It produces the very framework through which behavior, identity, and morality are understood.

At its core, power shapes how people act because it shapes what people think action should look like. It infiltrates both the external environment and the internal psyche, embedding itself in the unconscious assumptions that guide decisions, emotional responses, and patterns of thought. Power organizes what people do, how they feel about what they do, and even how they believe they should feel.

Power as the Architecture of Morality and Desire

Life offers no instruction manual, no guarantees, no comforting assurance that anything means anything at all. Humans, the self-aware, overcomplicated mammals that we are, are dropped into the world naked, screaming, and already in debt to the forces that made us. We are animals, but unlike the rest, we have the misfortune of knowing it—and the audacity to believe we’re something more. We build civilizations not just to escape the elements, but to escape the sheer absurdity of our mortal condition. How comical that we are food for worms yet possess a flair for philosophy, constructing entire moral frameworks to convince ourselves that our struggles serve some higher purpose.

Every society, every law, every sacred value is a desperate attempt to wrestle chaos into something legible, to turn the incomprehensible into a system that can be followed, defended, and passed down like a family heirloom. Because the alternative—the raw, unfiltered realization that nothing is fixed, that our traditions are little more than elaborate coping mechanisms—is unthinkable. Better to cling to old myths, even suffocating ones, than to confront the reality that we made all of this up, and that we are no closer to certainty than the first primate who pointed at the stars and demanded they mean something.

What people call “right” or “wrong,” “good” or “bad,” isn’t carved into the fabric of the universe. These aren’t universal truths—they’re the products of power dynamics, both between humans and the chaotic forces of life, and between humans themselves.

Moral values are created in the messy effort to impose order, to hold onto meaning in a world that offers none by default. They give structure to the fear of insignificance, a way to feel anchored in the face of constant change and uncertainty. Over time, the values that serve those in power—whether political, religious, or cultural—become woven into daily life, institutions, and personal beliefs until they feel natural. But they’re not natural. They are the leftovers of battles fought to maintain the illusion that life’s meaning can be pinned down and controlled.

Consider the idea that disobeying authority is inherently wrong. This idea became entrenched in social norms because stable societies depend on obedience to function. Over time, those in power reinforced this idea through laws, religion, and culture, making defiance seem not just disruptive but morally unacceptable. By framing obedience as a virtue and rebellion as a sin, authority protects the systems that uphold its control and legitimacy.

When people question power, the foundations of obedience start to shake because those foundations were built for stability, not for truth. Truth is never fixed—it deepens with every question, growing more complex before breaking through to new clarity, only for the cycle to begin again. But this constant evolution is a threat to stability, which depends on keeping things unquestioned and unchanged.

The guilt or fear you feel when challenging authority isn’t a moral failing—it’s the echo of conditioning designed to protect that stability. Morals exist to uphold the social order, offering a sense of stability that gives people the illusion of firm ground—a foundation where meaning can take hold. When we challenge these morals, the fragile sense of purpose people have built feels threatened.

Without that foundation, meaning feels less like solid terrain and more like a cloud, shifting and impossible to hold. That’s what people fear—not chaos itself, but the collapse of the stories that made them feel anchored. Morality, in this sense, is less a guide for how to live and more a tool for managing the fear that life, at its core, refuses to be tamed. People cling to oppressive norms and morals because resisting them feels like losing part of themselves. Others just as fiercely reject those norms because accepting them would mean betraying the identity they’ve built around resistance—but more on that in Part IV.

A woman raised in a patriarchal society might struggle with feminism because she has built her identity around traditional gender roles. Even if she knows these norms are limiting, letting go feels like losing herself. Someone who has spent their life in capitalist work culture might feel a deep sense of unease at the idea of stepping away from competition and constant productivity, as if losing their place in that system means losing their sense of purpose. They know the system is flawed, but it has structured their entire self-understanding.

The things people crave—success, recognition, achievement—are shaped, molded, and curated over time by cultural narratives that tell us what’s worth wanting. That burning ambition to climb the ladder, earn more, be somebody? It often reflects not who you are but what the system needs you to be. This doesn’t mean people are incapable of independent thought. But the very contours of what feels desirable, the limits of what we think we can want—that’s the result of forces we didn’t choose and can’t easily escape.

Uncertainty is exhausting. Life doesn’t come with instructions, and the sheer unpredictability of it all—random accidents, sudden losses, unexpected changes—can feel overwhelming. People don’t just crave certainty; they need it, because without it, meaning feels slippery, like trying to hold onto water. Social and cultural norms step in to make sense of the chaos, offering a kind of script: here’s how to behave, what to believe, what to strive for. They give life structure, turning the unknown into something that at least seems predictable.

But these norms weren’t designed with our well-being in mind. They didn’t arise from a careful study of what makes life rich, fulfilling, or harmonious. They are the leftovers of past struggles, shaped by those who had the most power to decide what should be valued, rewarded, or punished. Over time, they became so ingrained that they no longer feel like choices—we inherit them as if they were as natural as gravity. And questioning them? It doesn’t always happen through grand acts of rebellion. Sometimes, it’s as small as a shirt untucked at a business meeting, a teenager dyeing their hair purple, or someone showing up unshaven to a place where they’re “supposed” to look polished. These little disruptions make people uneasy—not because they actually threaten anything, but because they don’t. The meeting still happens, the world keeps turning, and that person seems fine. If the rules can be bent, or ignored, or broken entirely without consequence, then what were they holding up in the first place? That creeping doubt is unsettling for those of us who tuck in our shirt, don’t dye our hair, and do shave every morning, because it raises a much bigger question: If the world isn’t enforcing these rules as strictly as I thought, then am I the one holding myself to them? And if so, do I actually believe in them, or have I just been following along because it felt easier than deciding for myself?

In the end, what feels like moral certainty or authentic desire is often just the residue of systems designed to control, not liberate. As discussed in Part I, the trick of power is to make those systems invisible, to turn historical contingencies into personal convictions.

Power’s Operation in Everyday Interactions

Power is most effective when it becomes routine, embedded in everyday practices and interactions. It defines who speaks and who listens, who holds authority and who submits, who is visible and who is ignored. These dynamics are present in every environment—schools, workplaces, homes, public spaces—and they shape the behavior of individuals in ways that often go unnoticed.

In the Workplace
Power doesn’t just sit in the corner office with a title plate; it seeps into the cracks of everyday interactions, saturating the air between words, gestures, and glances. In a typical office, it’s not just the manager’s authority that shapes the room—it’s who gets to speak without being interrupted, whose jokes land and whose fall flat, who can take a risk and stumble without their competence being questioned. A junior employee pitches an idea in a meeting, their voice steady but eyes flickering for approval. The room goes quiet for half a beat—then a senior colleague repeats the same idea, slightly rephrased, and suddenly it’s brilliant. Heads nod, notes are taken. The original speaker forces a polite smile, their contribution already erased, the moment passed like it never happened.

These moments are the daily rituals of power—small, sharp cuts that go unnoticed because they bleed just enough to sting, not enough to scream. Employees learn the unspoken rules fast: when to lean in with confidence and when to shrink back; when to flash competence like a badge and when to dull its shine to avoid threatening someone higher up.

A person might underplay their knowledge in front of a boss who feels easily overshadowed, laughing at bad jokes, nodding at mediocre ideas, all to maintain the fragile balance that seemingly keeps them employed. Over time, these performances don’t feel like performances anymore. Power motivates conscious behavior until it becomes instinct, muscle memory etched into the body’s posture and the mind’s reflexes.

Even the smallest interactions carry the imprint of power. A friend interrupts mid-thought, not out of malice but instinct, steering the conversation to assert their position. A co-worker casually dismisses someone’s point with a quick “yeah, but—” and moves on, unaware or uninterested in what they just erased. The person left behind swallows the moment, not because their words lacked weight, but because the social script has already assigned roles—who leads, who follows, who is heard, who fades into the background. These micro-interactions stack up like bricks, building invisible walls of hierarchy that feel permanent because they’re constructed one unnoticed moment at a time.

This happens between equals, between friends, between people who care about each other. We undercut, one-up, or subtly position ourselves above others, not always consciously, but because we’ve been shaped by a world where power is mirrored, absorbed, and reproduced in even the most casual interactions. Sometimes it’s a way to stand out, to prove we’re not just one of the masses but someone worth noticing. Other times, it’s a defense mechanism, a desperate attempt to remind ourselves we still have power in a world that constantly reminds us we don’t. When life keeps rolling forward, piling on pressures with no pause to reflect, these moments become survival strategies—small victories in a system that offers few.

In Public Spaces (Supermarkets)
Power doesn’t clock out when people leave the office. It follows them into places that seem neutral, like the fluorescent-lit aisles of a supermarket. A man stands at a checkout counter, talking too much, too long, to a young cashier who can’t leave. His words are coated in politeness, maybe even charm, but there’s a weight behind them—a quiet insistence that she stay engaged, keep smiling, keep playing her role. He leans in slightly, asks another question she didn’t invite, waits for a response he feels entitled to. She nods, polite but distant, her body angled toward the next customer, the clock, anything that signals the conversation should end. But it doesn’t. Because she can’t end it.

He isn’t thinking about the fact that she’s trapped—not in the way she is. But he knows, on some level, that she won’t just turn away, that she won’t roll her eyes or ignore him or say enough. He knows she won’t make him feel awkward, won’t risk embarrassment, won’t assert a boundary that might make him uncomfortable. Because she isn’t just a person in this moment—she’s a cashier, a role wrapped in expectations. She is obligated to be polite. That politeness is not kindness, not warmth—it’s submission, enforced by the knowledge that if she steps out of line, there could be consequences. Maybe she gets reported for having an “attitude.” Maybe she loses hours. Maybe she just has to endure the next ten minutes of cold hostility because she didn’t smile enough.

And that’s what makes the dynamic so powerful. He doesn’t have to yell or demand anything outright. He doesn’t need to be aggressive. The structure already does the work. It gives him permission to take up space and expects her to yield. He can test the boundary—push it just slightly—without ever naming what he’s doing, because the script is already written in his favor. She is here to accommodate, to make the interaction smooth, to make him feel good. And if she resents it, if she feels uncomfortable, if she walks away from the shift feeling drained and used—well, that’s just how it is. That’s just the job.

Or consider a more overt example. A customer slams a loaf of bread onto the conveyor belt, scowling at the cashier for a pricing error. “Is it really that hard to do your job?” The words cut sharp, unnecessary—but perfectly safe. The cashier, locked in a name tag and company-issued uniform, forces a tight-lipped smile. They can’t snap back. They know it. The customer knows it. That’s the point.

This isn’t about the bread. It’s about the rush—the fleeting, intoxicating jolt of superiority. A day filled with small humiliations, a boss’s critique, a partner’s indifference, the dull ache of feeling small. But here, in this moment, they are the one with power. Not real power, but a cheap substitute, like fast food for the ego. They can sneer, vent, even humiliate—without consequence—because the structure says they’re “always right.”

Power thrives in these moments—not through force, but through expectation. Through roles so ingrained that nobody has to say out loud who gets to speak and who has to listen, who gets to take up space and who has to shrink.

This is how power operates—not just in boardrooms or courtrooms, but in break rooms, checkout lines, and every unnoticed moment where one person’s comfort depends on another’s silence. It doesn’t need grand gestures to survive. It thrives in the mundane, hidden in plain sight.

The Neurochemical Reinforcement of Power

Power is etched into the very wiring of our brains. The dynamics of dominance and submission are reinforced internally, through neurochemical feedback loops that reward us for staying in line with the roles and behaviors we’ve been conditioned to accept. Pleasure in power doesn’t come from domination or submission itself. The brain seeks something deeper—the reinforcement of learned behaviors that signal success, control, and approval. Social environments shape these associations, and when we act within those patterns, our brains reward us, reinforcing the cycle.

When someone asserts control—winning an argument, cutting someone off mid-sentence without repercussion, exerting authority over a subordinate—they often get a hit of dopamine, the neurotransmitter linked to reward and reinforcement.

This happens because the context has taught the brain to interpret that act as meaningful. In societies where status, authority, and control are markers of success, the brain learns to equate these signals with achievement. The dopamine doesn’t reward dominance per se—it rewards the successful enactment of socially sanctioned power.

Consider a manager berating an employee in a meeting. In an environment where authority is equated with competence, and where demonstrating control is seen as effective leadership, the manager’s brain registers this performance of dominance as a success. The social cues—the silent compliance of others in the room, the employee’s forced apology—feed back into the brain’s reward system. The dopamine surge reinforces the behavior because the brain has been conditioned to see this dynamic as a win within the rules of the system.

This conditioning shapes submission, too. A cashier enduring a customer’s abuse without retaliation, a student holding back a correction when a teacher is wrong, an employee laughing at a superior’s unfunny joke—these acts of self-suppression also trigger neurochemical feedback. Compliance, avoidance of conflict, deference to authority—all of these behaviors are rewarded with feelings of relief, safety, or even minor satisfaction because they align with internalized expectations of what’s “appropriate.” The absence of punishment, the maintenance of social harmony, the subtle nods of approval from those in power—these cues signal to the brain: You did the right thing. Dopamine fires because the brain has learned that compliance secures acceptance, reduces risk, and avoids social penalties.

Over time, these patterns become deeply ingrained. People learn to crave the short-term neurochemical payoffs of dominance or submission, even when the behaviors themselves are harmful or self-destructive. A boss micromanages to the point of alienating their team but can’t stop because each act of control provides a fleeting sense of reassurance. A person stays silent in the face of injustice because the discomfort of speaking out outweighs the immediate neurochemical comfort of going along. The system doesn’t need constant external enforcement—people internalize the mechanisms of control and carry them in their bodies, reinforced by their own neurobiology.

Power’s Impact on Mental Health: Inward and Outward Manifestations

Power’s influence shapes internal states of mind, contributing to conditions like anxiety, depression, and various forms of psychological distress. The same systems that encourage aggressive assertions of dominance also create environments where individuals experience chronic insecurity, self-doubt, and a sense of inadequacy.

Anxiety and Depression

Power is not a fixed state—it’s a constant effort to maintain control. It exists through domination, authority, and the ability to enforce decisions over others. This creates a divide: those who command and those who obey. That divide fuels tension, resistance, and the possibility of rebellion. Holding power means constantly managing that instability—through surveillance, laws, force, or persuasion. Power stays in motion because the same imbalance that upholds it also threatens to undo it. The more one side dominates, the more pressure builds on the other to push back. The ruling side must always work to maintain its position because the possibility of resistance never disappears. Power requires constant effort to prevent collapse.

Power, thus, isn’t something you win once and hold onto forever—it’s slippery, fragile, always under threat. Even when you succeed, the anxiety doesn’t vanish. It mutates. You question whether you really succeeded or if you just got lucky. Could you have done better? Did you miss something? And if you’re rewarded, the fear shifts: What if I lose this? What if they find out I’m undeserving? Now you’re scrambling to protect what you’ve gained. The higher you climb, the harder the fall feels. We know this and become more desperate to avoid it. Success doesn’t always silence the anxiety; often, it feeds it.

This is the natural result of power structures that tie your worth to productivity, status, and endless comparison. In a world where value is measured, displayed, and ranked, existence itself feels like something to be proven. When you fall short of these rigid standards, you don’t just feel disappointment. You feel defective, like you’ve failed at being enough. But how could anyone be enough when the goalposts are always moving?

The body is dragged into this fight. Chronic stress wears it down like sandpaper. Your chest tightens, your stomach knots, your sleep shatters into restless fragments. The pressure inscribes itself into your muscles, your gut, your heartbeat. The body is carved by demand, shaped by forces that pull from every direction, bending, twisting, pressing, until what was once fluid becomes rigid, what was once whole becomes a mosaic of strain.

Aggression and Defensiveness

But this pressure doesn’t always implode inward. Sometimes, it explodes outward. When your status feels threatened—at work, in relationships, even in casual conversations—there’s a surge of defensiveness, a raw need to prove something, to claw back control. The threat doesn’t have to be big. It could be a colleague correcting you in a meeting, a partner pointing out a flaw, a friend’s casual success that casts a shadow on your own. The reaction is about what the moment means in a world where your identity is stitched together with fragile threads of achievement and approval.

This aggression doesn’t always land where it should. You might not lash out at the boss who undermined you—but you snap at your girlfriend later, sharp words spilling out before you can catch them. Or worse, the hostility turns inward. You berate yourself, replaying mistakes like a punishment loop, feeding a cycle of self-sabotage that feels both inevitable and inescapable. You destroy your own confidence before anyone else gets the chance.

It’s a brutal oscillation: collapse inward, lash outward, repeat. Trapped between feeling not good enough and overcompensating to mask that feeling, people swing from self-doubt to control-seeking behaviors. This is the psychological cost of living in a system designed around scarcity, competition, and fragile hierarchies. The anxiety and aggression aren’t bugs in the system; they’re features. Power maintains itself through the churn of human minds and bodies, locked in cycles of striving, fearing, defending, and breaking.

Escalation and Self-Destruction: The Logic of Power’s Expansion

Power can be defined by its fluidity. It has a gravitational pull, an internal logic that drives it to expand, intensify, and consume. This isn’t because individuals or institutions are uniquely aggressive—it’s because, as noted, power, by its very nature, is fragile. It relies on constant reinforcement, and once asserted, it demands more to maintain its grip. The first exertion of control creates a baseline, and to feel that same sense of dominance or security again, the next move often has to be bigger, louder, harsher. Power escalates because stability feels like vulnerability, and in systems built around dominance, vulnerability is intolerable.

Interpersonal Escalation

Picture a workplace dynamic where tension simmers just below the surface. It starts small—a dismissive glance when someone speaks in a meeting, a “forgotten” invitation to an important email chain. These micro-aggressions aren’t explosive, but they plant seeds. The person on the receiving end feels the sting, subtle but undeniable. Maybe they brush it off—or maybe they push back, making a pointed comment of their own. Now the dynamic shifts. The original aggressor feels their position waver, even slightly, and that discomfort triggers the need to reassert control. The next move is sharper: public criticism during a presentation, passive-aggressive remarks cloaked as “feedback.”

The conflict snowballs because each act of power seemingly demands a response. What began as a simple slight becomes a battle to reclaim lost ground. The issue isn’t the original offense anymore—it’s about not losing. The mind races with justifications: I can’t just let that slide. If I don’t push back, they’ll think I’m weak. But beneath the defiance lurks something deeper—anxiety, the gnawing fear that failing to assert yourself now means losing control entirely. And in a world built on hierarchy, where every interaction reinforces who stands where, that fear isn’t entirely unfounded. The fear fuels escalation, and soon, what could’ve been a minor disagreement spirals into a toxic cycle of hostility, resentment, and sabotage. No one wins, but that was never the point. The goal became avoiding the feeling of having lost, even if it destroys relationships in the process.

Institutional Escalation

At the institutional level, this logic hardens into policy. Think of law enforcement: a teenager mouths off during a routine stop. In theory, it’s a minor act of defiance—no threat, no crime. But within the logic of institutional power, defiance is a crack in authority. The officer’s response is swift—escalating from verbal warnings to physical force. Why? Because the system isn’t designed to tolerate even small challenges without overwhelming retaliation. The badge, the uniform, the gun—they’re symbols of authority that can’t afford to be questioned, even by a kid with nothing more than an attitude.

The escalation becomes self-justifying. The moment force is used, the narrative shifts: Look how dangerous this situation became—we were right to respond aggressively. The act of asserting control creates the very conditions that seem to warrant more control. Protests against police brutality are met with riot gear, tear gas, and mass arrests—not because peaceful demonstrations pose a real threat, but because the institution’s authority feels threatened, and power responds to threats with escalation. It’s a feedback loop: suppression breeds resistance, resistance “justifies” harsher suppression.

Self-Destructive Outcomes

Ultimately, this relentless drive to escalate doesn’t just harm those on the receiving end—it corrodes the very foundations of the systems and individuals clinging to power. In personal relationships, the need to dominate can leave people isolated, burning bridges they can’t rebuild. The manager obsessed with control alienates their team, creating an environment so toxic that productivity collapses—the very thing they were trying to protect. The friend who always needs to be “right” ends up alone, their victories hollow because they’ve driven everyone away.

Institutions face the same fate. Governments that crack down on dissent with brutal efficiency may silence opposition temporarily, but they also sow the seeds of rebellion. Social orders crumble from the rot within—corruption, overreach, the inability to adapt because maintaining control became more important than solving real problems. The very mechanisms designed to preserve power become the catalysts for its downfall.

The tragic irony is that power’s obsession with control makes it fragile. Its strength depends on constant escalation, but every escalation digs the hole deeper.

Power as the Total Environment

Power provides a sense of certainty, whether you’re the one wielding it or the one obeying it. For those in control, it offers the comfort of predictability—people will defer, the rules will hold, the world will respond as expected. For those following, it removes the burden of questioning—this is just how things are, these are the roles we play. It smooths over complexity, turning a chaotic world into a clear script where actions have set responses and deviations feel unnatural. Even when power is oppressive, it is stable, and stability is disburdening. It allows people to move through life without constantly re-evaluating what is right, fair, or necessary. The reality is messier—power is fluid, contested, fragile—but living in its structure offers a simpler, more navigable world, one where the rules are already written, and all that’s left is to follow them.

Power has thus come to define the total environment within which people exist. It shapes what people do, how they feel, how they think, and how they understand themselves and others. It operates through the creation of moral frameworks, the structuring of desire, the reinforcement of behavior through neurochemical feedback, and the internalization of social norms.

Its most profound effect is in the mundane, routine experiences where it feels invisible because it has been naturalized. Recognizing this does not mean power can be easily escaped or overturned. It means that any attempt to understand human behavior, social organization, or personal identity must account for the ways in which power has shaped the very conditions under which understanding is possible.

Peter S. Baron (http://www.petersbaron.com)  is the author of If Only We Knew: How Ignorance Creates and Amplifies the Greatest Risks Facing Society.